394. AT GYRY BRIDGE

AT GYRY BRIDGE
Catamaran and altitude together nearing Byrnehym Gaol.
Small and angled, the rocky cliffs descend harshly
into the gently weaving grasses running loose along
the nearby shore. An errant barrel, someone's old bicycle,
the most-usual crap of a most-usual age. The old men
of the Burnham family - as we know it today - once
ran their sickly jail right here - a cinderblock hut large
enough for maybe four. Men who'd lost their way;
crazy guys with no home or history.
-
Single events of no time and place, the sort of
story-lines from which come ghost tales and
horror legends. The axe-man who killed fourteen
people at the Jameson wedding. Millie Floray who
butchered her children and torched her cabin
before burning her husband alive. It's this
level of memory keeps tourism alive.
-
Now we're in the level graveyard, where
only happenstance has put people away.
Granite and sandstone and slate,
varied sorts of markers each with
a tale to tell. 'Beware ye who cometh
here - to not lose this life for it is
too dear' this thin marker reads...
It's like that everywhere, one
fabled thing after another.